It Could Be Worse
by KleeZeeNex
Summary: Survive the end of the world, you get half a stale cookie, the flu, and an ex-angel to remind you of the not-so-finer things in life. Set somewhere around 2013 after the Croatoans have been running around for a while.
1. When There's No One Left To Save

**A/N: So this is a three-part story in Dean's POV that was actually was born of another story I'm working on that's about the gang's trip _to_ Camp Chitaqua, but it got totally out of control and I decided to make these scenes into their own story. The original story should be posted soon, but fear not-this one stands on its own. It just happens to be the story that got finished first. For other, less important author's notes about what I was thinking when I wrote these scenes, check the bottom of each chapter.**

******I'm pretty sure all of this has been done before, but I can't seem to get my head out of... what do you call it? Not tags for "The End," technically. I think I saw it called "Croatverse?" I am new to this particular fandom, so excuse my ignorance of the lingo.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. If I did, "The End" would have been its own season.**

* * *

Good news—mortal Cas is still creepy.

He senses things that nobody else does. Or maybe he's just using senses that normal humans just don't ever exercise. Maybe he's got a bad sense of smell because he's not used to it, but he's really good at sensing depressing things like broken souls or, in this case, infected ones.

Right now, half the camp is staring at him. This particular half of the camp includes a woman with her arms wrapped around a ten-year-old kid. The kid has a cut on his arm, and we're all waiting for Cas to say something.

It takes a while to tell for sure, Cas is always reminding us. It doesn't make anybody any more patient.

"No, he's not infected," Cas finally says, and the kid's mother bursts into hysterics and hugs her son to her chest, leaking tears into his hair. Cas turns his back on them so that he can murmur to me, "His mother is freaking him the hell out, though."

With that, Cas stands back and lets me pat the mother and son on their shoulders, and I murmur stupid things like, "He's okay, you're okay, let's all calm down," until the crowd disperses and the mother has stopped crying long enough to loosen her vice grip on the kid. I ruffle his hair once before leaving, and he watches me with wide eyes as I turn to head toward my cabin.

I stop when I see Cas lingering a few yards away with his arms folded over his chest. He's standing there staring at the kid with deep frown, and his eyes catch mine when he notices that I'm looking his way. I walk over to him so that I can ask in a low voice, "Is the kid really okay?"

Cas lets out a slow breath through his nose. "He's not infected," he says again. "And his name is Ryan."

"Ryan," I repeat, watching the woman stroke her son's hair. I'm about to ask Cas if he knows the woman's name, too, but then something rustles to my right and I look over to find Cas striding away with an arm wrapped around his middle. He makes it behind the tool shed before he doubles over and vomits into a patch of grass.

And all I can think is, damn, what a waste of Vicodin.

* * *

I don't spend a lot of time in Cas's cabin. Not if I can help it. Right now, I can't help it.

"Cas, you swiped the last lighter, you son of a bitch," I greet as I barge into the cabin.

Cas is lying on his bed with his arms behind his head. He doesn't take his eyes off the ceiling when he replies, "Would it be more convenient for you if I removed the door all together?"

I ignore him, heading toward the dresser. The top drawer holds—I brace myself—socks. Okay.

"Hey," Cas says, and I hear him sitting up as I get to the third drawer. "Have you seen…?" He goes quiet.

"Who?" I mutter, sifting through Cas's t-shirts.

"Never mind."

I look up. Cas is propped up on one elbow, sending his vacant stare to the floorboards. "Who?" I ask again.

Cas scoots back until he's sitting against the wall with his legs stretched in front of him. "She's dead. Forgot."

He's talking about Olivia, I guess. We lost her last week. "Well are you too high to remember where you put the damn lighter?" I say, shoving the last drawer closed.

"You always want something, Dean."

That stops me, has me glancing at Cas again. I don't know if he's being particularly philosophical or if he's just stating the obvious. But it makes me guilty enough to pause in my search and sit down in the rocking chair near Cas's bed. "Well, you're no fun anymore," I quip.

Cas is looking at me, but I don't think he's comprehended what I just said. "Do you know what the biggest difference between angels and humans is?" he blurts.

I gape at him. "Angels" has been unofficially deemed a bad word at Camp Chitaqua, mostly for Cas's benefit.

Cas goes on with a wave of his hand when I don't answer. "Most people think it's the soul thing," he says. "But it's not. It's…" Cas looks up, and seems to get distracted by something I can't see. He drops his hand. "Maybe it _is_ the soul thing."

"Uh huh," I say. "Could you just hand over the lighter already? Risa's going to be back with the truck soon, and I need—"

"_Need_." Cas chews on the word as his eyes find me again. "You know, Dean, when I was an angel—"

"Wow, you must be higher than a—"

"—when I was an angel," Cas goes on, "what I wanted and what I needed were one in the same."

I sigh and lean back. It is obvious that I am not getting that lighter any time soon. "Well maybe you just didn't want anything," I offer.

Cas leans his head back with a soft _thud_ against the wall and laughs. It's a short exhale through a Cheshire grin. "I don't think I want anything _now_," he corrects me.

I don't know what to say. Cas folds his hands in his lap, and I think I see clarity worm its way into his stare for a second before his face goes blank again. Then he murmurs, helpfully, "Anyway, that's the difference."

I clear my throat. It's been a while since I tried this talking thing, but maybe… "Cas, you don't have to—" But as I speak Cas leans forward and reaches under the bed, pulling out a shoebox.

When Cas opens the box I catch sight of some folded sheets of paper, a few prescription bottles, and— "Is that a _wedding_ band?"

Cas finds what he was looking for and puts the lid back on the box. "It was Jimmy's," he murmurs as he puts the box back under the bed. Then he holds his hand out to me. In his palm is a red lighter.

I reach out to take it, but, "That's not the lighter that went missing."

Cas scratches the back of his head with his free hand. "I know," he says. "I don't have it. You can take mine."

I take the lighter. Cas's clammy palm feels like melting ice. "Uh, thanks," I say, then, "Sorry."

Cas shrugs and leans back, closing his eyes. I am being effectively dismissed.

I quietly get up to leave, but as I open the door I can't help saying, "I'd be happy to grab a screwdriver and take this off the hinges for you."

Cas doesn't open his eyes, but he does tell me exactly what I can do with that screwdriver. I chuckle and leave, letting the door close behind me.

* * *

I wake up to the sound of a car that is not the Impala, and I'm worried until I remember—she's at camp, she's broken down, she's missing a door, she hasn't moved in months.

I lift my head away from the window, wincing when my hair sticks to the glass. Once I'm sitting up I can see the brown, dried blood crusted where my head was resting.

"You shouldn't have gone alone."

I look to my left, and there's Cas, eyes on the road. I didn't even think to wonder who was driving. I'm having trouble focusing. I should be able to see better than I am. It's not dark out, really. Should still be early afternoon—nobody leaves camp at night, not even me—but the spots in my vision are making it hard to tell for sure. I do manage to spot a water bottle in the cup holder, so I snag that and crack it open. After taking a sip I ask, "How long have I been…?" I don't know how to finish. Gone? Unconscious? Missing?

Cas props his elbow against his door so that he can rest his head on his fist. "I went looking for you an hour after you left," he says. "Found you and a dead Croat lying outside your truck ten miles out."

He doesn't ask what happened, which is just as well because I don't remember. I'm busy worrying about the truck, anyway. We can't afford to waste the vehicle, the full tank of gas. "Where's the truck now?" I ask.

Cas just looks at me. Deadpan. _Where do you think it is, dumbass?_

Sometimes I forget that Cas can't zap anymore. I forget, and I keep my mouth shut about it.

We're about ten minutes away from camp when Cas pulls over into the grass.

"What are you doing?" I ask. Cas just reaches past my feet to grab the first-aid kit that he must have stashed in the floorboard.

He pulls out some gauze and puts it into my hand. "Try to get some blood off your face," he tells me.

"Huh?" I reach up to look at my reflection in the rear-view mirror. "Oh, damn." The right side of my face is caked in reddish-brown blood that flakes off when I scratch at it. A though occurs to me. "Uh, I'm not… I mean the Croat wasn't…?" _Am I a zombie, Cas?_

Cas leans against his door again. "No," he says, but there's no way he could know so soon. I don't even know why I asked. "But no one is going to take our word for it."

Right. He knows what happens to people who come back to camp covered in blood. He's trying to save me from hours of nervous watching and ready rifles.

I use my sleeve to scratch most of the blood off of my cheek, then wet down the gauze to get at the blood in my hair. The gash runs from my ear to the base of my neck, but I can barely feel it. I'm too busy hoping that the blood I'm wiping away is only mine.

When I'm done I turn to Cas. "Am I pretty?" I ask, managing a half-grin.

Cas tilts his head in my direction, studying me. His eyes fix on a spot I missed below my ear, and he takes the gauze out of my hand. He tips my chin up so that he can scrub the rest of the blood away, and while he does it he says again, "You shouldn't go out alone."

I pull my chin out of his hand, and Cas goes back to his side of the truck, tossing the gauze out the window. "Nobody else wants to look for survivors anymore," I tell him.

Cas starts the truck and gets back onto the road. He doesn't say what I know he's thinking. Everybody else knows that we're the only ones left for miles. I know it, too, but that doesn't mean I can't look. Doesn't mean I shouldn't look.

Cas doesn't say any of this, even though he knows. He stares out the windshield with glazed eyes, and I wonder if he can even see the road. "Don't you pay any attention to the 'do not operate heavy machinery after taking this drug' warnings?" I quip.

Cas doesn't act like he heard me. I think about making him pull over so that I can drive, concussion be damned. But a minute later he speaks, and his voice is soft and even. "What will you do?" he asks. "When there's no one left for you to save?"

He's not expecting an answer, but the question irks me so much that I say, "The same thing you did, I guess."

It is a push too far, I know as soon as the words are out of my mouth. Cas presses his lips into a thin line and goes back to shutting up. Then we pull into the camp's gravel road, and I try to say, "Hey, I didn't—" But Cas is already slamming his door behind him.

He doesn't speak to me again for the rest of the day.

* * *

**A/N: Who hates first-person POV? I understand, really, but I've been in kind of a first-person rut lately (sounds dirty, eh?) because I've been reading so much of it. And I've found that I tend to have a pretty good time in Dean's POV, so. Yeah. Anyway, if you want to know what happened to Dean and the Croat at the end, I'll have to admit that it would probably resemble that one scene from The Walking Dead when Laurie somehow manages to wreck a car with no other cars around anywhere ever. That's what was in my head, but if anybody already had an idea about what happened to Dean there, I'd love to hear about it. That's a good transition into groveling for reviews, don'tcha think? So, uh... Reviews. Do that. If you feel like it. I might suck at this groveling thing. Thank you for reading, at any rate.**


	2. An Apology Swan

**A/N: Thank you to all who reviewed the first chapter! It's always nice to hear from readers, and I had so much fun writing this that I'm glad to hear it when someone enjoys reading as well.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural, of FernGully, for that matter. And I've never even seen Futurama, so I think it's safe to say I don't own that either.**

* * *

Winter is not something I thought to worry about. Half the camp is caked in salt and demon traps, but when winter gets here, I think I half-expect the snowstorms to just pass on by. But the snow rolls right over us, burying the camp in a crisp layer of precipitation.

I need to touch base with the team that just got back from the last run, but right now I'm staring at Cas's cabin, willing myself to go inside and say what needs to be said. Hell, maybe it will be nice to vent to somebody. _Nobody's clearing the roads and one of the trucks is broken down and Chuck is hyperventilating as we speak because we were low on toilet paper last week and now we're snowed in and just what the _hell_ am I supposed to do about snow, huh?_

I would love to say all that, but as I practice my venting on the way to Cas's door, my frustration sputters down to nerves. That's what makes me pause on the porch. That's what makes me knock instead of barging in.

Cas doesn't answer right away. I don't think I expected him to answer at all. I was kind of just planning on walking in like usual, and then after I knocked I was planning on waiting a second and then going in. But I don't do either. I stand there, and consider either leaving or knocking again. That's when Cas opens the door.

He stares at me. "You knocked," he says.

I stare back. "Good god, Cas, is that _hemp_?"

Cas looks at the hand that's still on the door, where a bracelet hangs from his wrist. "Mira made that for me," he announces, pointing to the bracelet with his free hand.

"You make friendship bracelets during your play dates with the angel groupies?"

Cas wrinkles his nose, but tries to get back to his point. "Why—"

"Is this before or after the show and tell?"

Cas shuts his mouth and lets out a short breath through his nose. "Would you like to come in?" he asks, exaggerating a gracious sweep of his arm as he steps back from the door.

Then the nerves come back, because I remember that I'm here for a reason. I shove my hands in my pockets and step inside, kicking my snow-caked boots off while Cas shuts the door behind me.

There's a house of cards in the middle of the floor that I fight the urge to kick over when I make my way to the chair across from the bed. But instead of sitting I touch the back of the chair and try to lean against it. It rocks out from under my hand, so I stand up straight again, scratching the back of my neck.

Cas is leaning against the door through all of this without interrupting, like he's content to just stand there all day and watch me be awkward. I drop my hand. "So," I start, finally getting to business. "I just wanted to let you know that we've been… uh. Not been able to go very far lately to get supplies."

Cas crosses his arms in front of his chest, only to unfold one and wave me on when I pause. "Right," I say. "Well, the last truck we took out got stuck, and we managed to walk most of the salvage back, but… you know that other truck broke down last week and we can't risk the others. Probably wouldn't get them out of the camp, anyway."

I've been talking to that house of cards this whole time, but now I look up at Cas. He's frozen, looking at me with an empty stare while I ramble on. "So we're running low on… uh, just about everything. I mean we've got plenty of canned food to last us until the end of winter but… I mean, just make sure you ration… everything." And at that both Cas and I glance at the bed at the same time, where the shoebox is hidden underneath.

When our eyes meet again, Cas has snapped back into his easy, drug-induced detachment. "You know, some people would call this enabling," he points out.

I take a step forward, stopping just short of the stacked cards. "Hey, I don't need you going through withdrawal on top of all the other crap I've got to deal with," I snap, taking a hand out of my pocket just to point a threatening finger at him.

Cas's smile flickers. He scratches the back of his neck, and I realize for the first time that the gesture is something that I picked up from him, not the other way around. "Right," he says, trying and failing to keep the nonchalance in his voice. "Well, I'll try not to be too much of a hassle, then."

I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. "Man, that's not what I—" I try to tell him, but when I look up again Cas is shaking his head, his smile returning. _I know, I know_.

I step over the cards again to pull my shoes back on, but Cas doesn't move out of my way once I'm standing in front of him. I raise my eyebrows, and Cas points to the cards behind me, saying, "Do you want to help me finish the south wing?"

"… No."

Cas dips his head. "Oookay," he drawls, and steps aside. I brush past him, grumbling the whole way out. After slamming the door shut, I hear a muffled string of curses from inside, and I smirk with the satisfaction of knowing that I've just knocked every one of those cards down.

* * *

We figure out pretty quick that ex-angels don't go through withdrawal. Cas of course did not heed my advice about rationing his crap, but after a week of no drugs the only thing we notice different in Cas is that he's extra crabby and barely leaves his cabin. I'm not completely shocked by this, because Cas doesn't get the flu that goes around the camp, either.

Speaking of the flu, I think I'm dying.

"You're not dying," Cas says, handing me another tissue.

"Shut up," I tell him, trying to figure out when I said that out loud.

Cas looks up from the paper he's folding into what I'm pretty sure is a flower. He's been making origami nonstop for the past week, and now he's dragged his paper into my cabin so that he can sit on my floor and make sure I don't die. "You should be kinder to me," he points out. "I'm the only one here who isn't afraid of your germs."

"Yeah, yeah," I say, pulling my blankets up to my shoulders. "And speaking of, get me some soup."

Cas goes back to his paper thingy, which by now I think is definitely a flower. "I got you soup half an hour ago," he reminds me, pointing to the bowl sitting on my nightstand. "You didn't touch it."

I kick the covers off of my feet. "Then go get me _hot_ soup," I demand.

Cas just makes a final adjustment to his paper creation and holds it up for me to see. "Does this look like a gardenia to you?" he asks.

"Th'hell is a gardenia?" I mumble into my pillow.

Cas rolls his eyes and places the paper flower on the nightstand next to the soup. Then he unfolds himself from his spot on the floor and pulls on my arm. "Up. Eat," he orders.

As soon as the room stops spinning, I whine, "But it's cold."

Cas puts the bowl in my lap.

"And I wanted chicken soup," I grumble, finally picking up the spoon.

Cas sits back down and picks up another sheet of paper from the pile next to him. "Tomato is all we have left," Cas answers.

I sip at a spoonful of my soup, cringing. "We have _got_ to get a truck out soon," I say.

Cas picks at one of his fingernails, which he's bitten down to the quick. He says nothing.

After a few minutes of silently eating my soup, I ask, "So how you doing?" It's the first time I've asked since he's run out of drugs, because. Well.

Cas folds his new sheet of paper until I can sort of guess that it's going to be an airplane. "Each day is a gift," he says, and it takes me a second to realize he's being sarcastic.

"Whatever," I say, setting my now-empty bowl back on the nightstand. "Just stay out of the Elmer's glue, huh?"

In answer, Cas chucks the now-finished paper airplane so that it hits me square in the nose. I snatch it into my hand, about to crumple it up, but then I notice the writing scrawled across the wing. "Cas… these are Chuck's inventory sheets."

Cas's hands freeze on the new page he's already started to fold. "Oops," he says. Then he continues folding. "I'll make him an apology swan."

I snort and lie down, rolling over to face the wall. "You do that." I let my eyes slide closed, adding, "I'd love to see Chuck kick your ass."

Cas maybe says something in response, but I'm falling asleep before I can make out what.

* * *

The first thing Cas does after the snow melts is get high and take his door of the hinges.

I stand back and watch him, for a while.

"It's still a little cold to go without a door, isn't it?" I comment.

Cas doesn't look up from his work. Currently he's swinging the door back and forth, like he's testing the remaining hinges. "I have a tarp," he replies.

"Ah." That settles that, apparently. "Well how's it coming?" I ask. He hasn't realized yet that he doesn't have a screwdriver, but half of the door is already hanging off of the frame crooked. I don't bother asking how he managed that.

Cas sits back on his heels, tossing a hammer down next to a red cooler at his feet. "I'm trying to remove the door without compromising the integrity of the wood," he answers.

I blink once. Twice. "Huh?"

"This door and I…" Cas stands and reaches forward rest his hand on the frame. "I'd like us to part on good terms."

I wave a hand at the crooked door. "Yes, well you've obviously already hurt the door's feelings," I say.

Cas nods and, before I can protest, grabs my hand to press it over a crack that's sprouted from the door's middle hinge. "Don't you feel its pain?" Cas says.

I wriggle my fingers under Cas's hand, but he won't budge. "Uh, I feel a door. Made of wood. Are you trying to give me a splinter?"

Cas levels me with a stare. "But trees give life. They make the clouds, the water, the air."

I snatch my hand back to reach into my pocket. "They sure do, buddy," I agree. "Listen, I brought a screwdriver, thought you might want a hand—"

"There are worlds within worlds, Dean," Cas interrupts like he didn't hear me. "Everything in our world is connected by the delicate strands of the web of life, which is a balance between—"

"God, you are a full-blown hippie now, aren't you?"

Cas deflates, dropping his hand from the door. "I'm screwing with you Dean," he reveals, crouching to open the cooler. "Those were all quotes from _FernGully_." He pulls out a bottle and holds it up to me. "Want a beer?"

I stare at the bottle for a second before I sigh and trade him the bottle for the screwdriver. "When the hell did you watch _FernGully_, anyway?" I mutter, crouching next to him to hold the door steady while he unscrews the bottom hinge.

Cas doesn't answer for a long time. I think about asking again, but when Cas says, "Hand me that hammer, will you?" I remember a night, a million years ago in a crappy motel, when Sam introduced Cas to Netflix. I remember begging Sam not to "nerd up the angel more than he already is," and I remember falling asleep to the sound of Sam laughing at _Futurama_, and I remember waking up the next morning to find Cas still at the table glued to Sammy's laptop.

"Dean." Cas nudges my shoulder. "Hammer."

"Yeah." I shake my head and pick up the hammer. When I drop it into Cas's hand, he catches my eye for a second, searching. I drop my gaze quickly, because let's face it—we both suck at the staring contests nowadays. Then Cas promptly goes on a rant about the deceptive nature of string cheese, and I don't stop him.

* * *

**A/N: I obviously have no idea how to take a door off it's hinges, but I doubt Cas does either, so there you go. I also have no idea if _FernGully_ was actually instant on Netflix in 2009, but it is now, which I approve of immensely. The _FernGully_ thing I actually just put in at the last minute, because everything I had Cas saying originally reminded me a lot of _FernGully_ and I just could not resist. The Dean having the flu thing was also something that just popped into the story when I wasn't watching it closely enough. The last line about the string cheese, though? Took me forever. Getting into Cas's drug-soaked, post-apocalyptic brain is, um, hard.**

**As always, I'd love to hear what y'all think, and if you don't review, then I'd like to thank you for reading all the same. One chapter left!**


	3. Nobody's Okay

**A/N: Last part. And... I got nothin. Enjoy, yeah?**

**Disclaimer: Don't own Supernatural.  
**

* * *

I'm not planning on visiting Cas when I walk by his cabin early one morning. I can still see my breath, though according to Chuck it's April now, and I stop when I see that Cas didn't put the tarp over his door last night. And so I march up the porch steps because, damn it, he's probably passed out again and we don't need to test his "Ex-angels probably can't catch hypothermia, Dean," theory.

Okay, so he never said that, but the point is he's a cocky bastard who doesn't have the sense to keep out of the—

I push through the beads hanging from the doorway and see Cas lying in his bed. There's a woman with him.

This has happened before, mind you. I've walked in on Cas doing a number of disturbing things with a number of individuals, and I've got the apologetic "Whoops" and about-face routine down to a science. But I stop myself this time, because Cas and the woman are completely clothed and lying on top of the covers. He's on his back with his head against the wall, combing his fingers through the woman's dark hair, and she's curled into his chest, asleep. I struggle to remember her name, but her face blurs together with a number of the other twenty-somethings that frequent Cas's cabin.

Cas's head snaps up when I enter, and he flattens his hand against the woman's hair. He blinks in surprise and then glances down at the woman, and once he's satisfied she's still asleep he glares back at me. _Get out, _he mouths to me, jabbing his pointer finger toward the door with his free hand.

I gape for a second, and then point back at him. "What the _hell_ are you—" I start to whisper, and then the whole thing turns into a hushed squabble of whispers and frantic hand gestures.

"Damn it, Dean, _get out!_"

"Are you crazy?"

"That's consensus, don't you think?"

"You moron, you cannot _fall for one of the angel groupies_!"

"_Stop calling them that._"

"I'll call them whatever the hell I want, and that's all they are, they're _using_ you for absolution or some stupid—"

"Go to hell."

And, damn, _that_ ends it, because I remember what Hell tasted like, smelled like, felt like. Cas does, too, I'd imagine, and that's probably why his eyes widen the second the words are out of his mouth. He drops his eyes to the bed and shakes his head, like he's trying to rattle the words out of his brain.

I let it go. Cas has spent the last few years recycling phrases that he's overheard, and it was only a matter of time before this one slipped out. But I do back up, shaking my head as I turn to head for the doorway. "I'm there, Cas," I say, throwing my hands up and slapping them back down again. "I'm already there." A string of beads falls to the floor as I tear through the doorway, and Cas doesn't say a word.

* * *

Mysterious angel-groupie has a name. It's Bonnie. I learn that after she's dead.

Risa tries to explain the details, after. "A routine run," she called it before she left. "We don't need you, Dean. Bonnie and Cas are coming with me. Don't even need Cas, really, but he insisted."

If I'd known Bonnie's name at the time, I would have put that little bit together. But I didn't.

Now I'm asking Risa what went wrong, where's Cas, whose blood is on the truck, and she keeps shaking her head, saying, "Everywhere, they were everywhere."

I don't remember walking to the infirmary. I know that one minute I'm talking to Risa and the next I'm pushing through a screen door and clutching the counter in relief when I see Cas sitting on a bench across the cramped room with his elbows resting on his knees. Out of the corner of my eye I see three guys lining the wall next to me, but I ignore them for the moment.

Cas didn't look up when I walk in. He must have heard the door slam. This room is tiny; it was really just a nurse's station before it was abandoned. But he doesn't move, and I notice for the first time that his arms look like they were dipped in blood. His legs look the same, from the knees down, plus the patches of blood where Cas must have wiped his hands on his pants. I figure now is as good a time as any to say something. "Cas?"

Cas's tilts his head up, and then he's moving to stand. "De—" But then we both hear the clicks and slides of weapons coming out of holsters, and I watch as Cas lifts both hands and steps backward.

Now I get a better look at the guys to my left. They are Thomas, Lon, and Wagner, and they are all pointing their guns at Cas. "Hey," I bark, taking a step forward, which just happens to be in the line of fire. "What the hell are you doing?"

"He's infected," Wagner says, keeping his eyes on Cas.

"He's not _infected_," I say, because that is the stupidest thing I've ever heard. I turn back to Cas, who's keeping his eyes on the floor with his hands still half-raised. "And why is no one helping you? Are you all right?"

Cas closes his eyes for a second before answering. "I'm fine, Dean."

Lon and Thomas have lowered their guns by now, so I go ahead and move next to Cas so I can get a better look at the limbs that are covered in blood. "What part of shaking and drenched in blood constitutes _fine_, Cas?" I demand, wrenching one of his hands down so I can turn it over and check for cuts.

"Don't touch him," Thomas warns. "Could be Croat blood. He said they got attacked by a mob of them."

I ignore him, checking the other hand while Cas grits his teeth and says, "It's Bonnie's blood. And I'm not infected."

I push Cas back down onto the bench and start to peel his blood-soaked jacket off of his shoulders. "See?" I say. "Not infected. Cas would know."

"That's what he would say if he was—" But I cut Thomas off with a look that I usually reserve for demons or Croats right before they get ganked. He snaps his mouth shut, and when I jerk my thumb toward the door and tell them all to scram, Thomas is the first one out.

Wagner pauses at the door to say, "Be careful," before he goes, and I ignore that, too.

Finally, when the jacket is out of the way, I can spot a thin cut across Cas's forearm. "Chuck went to get bandages," Cas says when he knows I've spotted it, and I nod, placing the arm back in his lap.

I don't know what to do then, so I pat him on the back and say, "You're okay." And then I know Cas is staring at me but I keep my eyes on his rolled up sleeve, where I can see a button has come loose.

"We're not…" Cas starts to say, but his voice cracks and I am not looking up. "We're not okay, Dean. Nobody's okay."

Five minutes later Chuck comes in to hand me the bandages. I wrap clean cotton around Cas's arm and then lean back against the wall, sitting in silence until the sun goes down. An hour after that Lon pokes his head in and informs us that if Cas was going to turn he would have done it by now, and sorry about the gun thing, and we'd really like to disinfect the infirmary now, if you don't mind.

So I take Cas by the elbow and lead him to the shower house, where I leave him to rinse off Bonnie's blood. A minute later, when I come back with a towel and a change of clothes, I remind him, "Try not to get the bandage wet," to which Cas replies, "Already did," and I leave the clothes outside the shower stall and don't hear from him again until morning.

* * *

On days when Cas has taken a few too many pills on too little sleep, Chuck or I will poke our heads into his cabin every couple hours or so, making sure. These are the days when we treat him not like a human or an ex-angel but an endangered species, the last of his kind. "He still breathing?" I'll ask Chuck when he steps out of Cas's cabin, and he'll say something like, "For now," or, "Finally got the bottle away from him."

Maybe we just treat him like a child.

Today, though, when it's my turn to make sure Cas is still alive, I push back the beads trickling from his doorway and see an empty room.

I've learned not to worry too much when Cas goes missing. Even when he's too high to know where he is, something pulls him back to his cabin every time. I like to think of him as a yoyo, or a bungee cord, or something like that, but really I know it's the busted angel left in him that brings him back to us like a Labrador every time.

Still I look around the cabin, checking under the bed for good measure because there was that one time last month—

"I'm here."

I turn, and Cas is looking up at me from the floor. He's wedged himself in between the wall and his dresser, sitting up with his legs pulled against his chest.

I wave a hand at him, because I cannot find words. Then I settle on, "What. Are you doing."

Cas stretches his legs out in front of him, but doesn't move to stand. Instead of answering my question he says, "Relax, I haven't had anything since noon."

Noon. That was around the time when Chuck checked on him last, I know, because when I asked Chuck about it he told me that Cas was praying in Mandarin. That didn't surprise me. Cas won't speak Enochian anymore, but he'll pray during the bad days, the too-many-pills days, the _why hast thou forsaken me_ days.

When it's me checking on him, and he happens to be praying in English, I'll watch him for a while, because drugged up and buried in blankets and prayer is as close to angel as I'll ever see him again. He'll stare at the ceiling like he can see straight into Heaven, and he'll pray for blessings on all of us and for the survivors we haven't found yet. He'll pray for peace, and forgiveness of God and his brothers and sisters and me and Sam and everyone he thinks he's let down at some point or another.

I'll watch from the chair across the room, and sometimes, when Cas is so far gone that I know he won't remember, I'll pray with him.

But now Cas is awake and alert and decidedly not as intoxicated as he has been since Bonnie died. His eyes are clear and wary, like he's waiting for something to crawl out from under the bed and bite him.

"Nothing?" I clarify. Cas nods. "So why are you hiding in the corner?"

Cas looks around himself, like he's just now noticing his position. He shrugs.

I offer my hand, and he looks at it suspiciously before he'll take it and let me pull him up. Once he's standing I clap him on the back and say, "Come on," because I have a faint hope that if I bombard him with fresh air and human company, he'll snap out of his current depressive phase.

Cas walks with me to the doorway, and I try not to notice the way he pauses before stepping outside. Progress, that's what this is, but when I step off of the porch I notice that Cas is not with me.

"I'm good here," he says from behind me, and I turn to find him sitting on the porch steps.

I sigh and sit next to him. "So, how you feeling?" I ask, just to start conversation.

"Tired. Sore. Pissed off."

I snort. "That about sums up the zombie apocalypse, I think," I say, nodding in approval. "And what made you decide to rejoin the land of the living?"

Cas quirks and eyebrow, and yeah, I guess that expression doesn't really work anymore. "Uh, land of the mostly dead and undead and a few who aren't," I amend.

"I had a dream that I was God, and called myself an abomination."

I wince, and change the subject, "Well, that's better than when you dreamed that Chuck was God."

Cas huffs out a laugh. "Yeah, well." And that's that.

We watch people for a minute. Risa is sitting at a picnic table, cleaning a gun. Chuck is darting from cabin to cabin, taking inventory on what we have and what we'll have to risk our necks for later. Others are getting water, talking, or heading to the mess hall to start dinner. I'm wondering if any of this is stuff Cas might want to do any time soon, but he seems content to just sit here and watch other people do stuff.

"In my dream," Cas says slowly. I pry my gaze away from the camp and watch Cas clasp his hands together. "In my dream, I—God—I don't think He was calling _me_ an abomination. We were sitting on top of a mountain, looking at the clouds. And he said, 'I am God, an abomination, a murderer, a betrayer.' And I said, 'Don't forget blasphemous,' and then God called me a smartass."

I laugh, and then I offer, "God has a sucky sense of humor."

Cas hums in agreement, rubbing his hands together for a while before resting them on his knees. "God did say one other thing," he says.

"What's that?" I ask.

Cas watches the people for another moment. He watches so closely that I wonder if he can see something in them that I can't. Probably can, I imagine. We'll probably always look different to him, like souls or orbs or something profound like that. The thought makes me self-conscious when Cas shifts his gaze to me, and I lean back against the porch railing.

Then Cas tilts his head, old-Cas-like, and tells me, "He said, 'It could be worse.'"

**END**

* * *

**A/N: So. Who got the ending? If you boycotted season seven (understandable) you probably just read it as Cas got high and had a weird dream about God. That's cool. If you managed to make the connection to God-Cas, you get a virtual Castiel-crafted origami honey bee.  
**

**I really hope y'all liked the story. As always, thanks for reading.**


End file.
